Drawing Lines
by Maidenstear
Summary: He's spent his entire life drawing lines.


Aneko: Plot bunnies plot bunnies plot bunnies! I think that's all I'm churning out these days. No, I'm not kidding you. I really think that. I swear that every time I think of a story, another one follows on its heels, but the plot bunny is later pushed aside for another plot bunny. I think this may be my third or fourth plot bunny of a plot bunny…

Disclaimer: I don't own Ouran High School Host Club. I'm not a twincest fan, for your information.

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><p><strong>Drawing Lines<strong>

He's spent his entire life drawing lines.

He draws lines to separate. Lines are clean, they are sharp. They are clear and obvious. No gray areas. If he just draws his lines, then he knows where everything goes—those people are over there, and he is over here.

His lines are his boundaries. On one side is him, on the other side is the rest of the world. Sometimes people try to cross his lines. It never works. Even if they manage, they are still a dull shade of gray. Unclear, not a part of his world.

His lines are not colorful. They are black like his father's hair (his father who he never really knew, his father who was on the other side of the lines just like everyone else). Some of his lines are directed by his black-haired father. Like that picture in the corner. It was supposed to be his. It was supposed to be his own creation.

No, his father says. Here is your frame. Here is your canvas. Make a flower.

He doesn't really like flowers.

Lines can make shapes. Clean shapes, like boxes and circles. Organized and neat. There is nothing confusing or difficult about that.

He never actually needed glasses. But he made the mistake once when he was young of expecting his father to comfort him when he was crying and afraid from some nightmare or other. He left his father with his eyes still stinging, but as dry and hard as rocks. That was a mistake he swore never to make again. His father didn't exist to comfort. He existed to challenge and to inspect everything his sons did with calculating eyes. And he challenged the sadness and vulnerability of a child, without any exception.

That was the first line. It burns in his mind, more painful than the others (They weren't really painful at all, once he got used to them, like becoming numb to the pain or the cold). But it was the only thing that helped him survive in the cold and calculating world that his father was pushing him into.

There are so, so, _so _many lines. But despite that, they never cross. They are like little soldiers, small and uniform, forming ranks of rows and rows of pathways and barriers. Some of the lines are his, but some were made by his father.

Perfection, perfection, always perfection. That is what his father expects from him. Nothing less than the best. Perfection has nothing to do with the person underneath. So while he became twisted up and black on the inside (black like drawn lines and his father's hair), his father watched in satisfaction, as long as no detail was out of place.

There are so many lines that he barely has room for himself between them all. Barely enough room to not suffocate himself beneath his choking black lines. It was his perfect offense, his perfect defense, and a perfect trap.

And time passes.

And he draws more lines.

And he is pulled deeper and deeper into his own trap.

Until one day, someone else comes.

_This_ person has no respect (or rather, no clue) for his lines, his boundaries. He walks right over them in an ignorance of giant, obnoxious rainbows and flowers (and he still doesn't like flowers). He comes, splashing color in his wake. Violent reds, pastel violets, grass greens, and everything in between mar his black, thin and neat lines.

The defense that had taken him years to build is mangled in a few brief seconds of idiocy. How he wants to strangle this blonde-haired moron of a—

But no. His black-haired father's expectations tighten the lines around him again. And for a while, everything is right and perfect in his world. There really should be a limit to one's stupidity, he thinks. He hates being pulled along by anyone, so he'll just have to show that illegitimate fool his abilities to the fullest.

Never have his plans come crashing down around him so spectacularly. Every time he tries to regain control of his surroundings (not to mention his dignity), that airhead comes along and trips him up all over again. He thought that he was so _special_, so—so—

But then, how (how_how_how) could that same idiot step over every single line, dancing his way past all the guards on his heart, and ask him the very questions that could shake him to the core? The questions that make him doubt his path? Just like that, the lines start to blur. Desperately, he tries to stop them, to draw more, but it's useless. The more lines he tries to redraw, the more lines the illegitimate erases and messes up.

Like a Shakespearean fool, he needles at him, showing gems of wisdom where most would fail and give up (perhaps such persistence truly make him a fool after all).

Perhaps—

_Just_ perhaps—

All this time, he wasn't as distanced from the world as he thought he was.

And…

Perhaps—

_Just_ perhaps—

That's okay.

He picks up his canvas, and begins to draw a rainbow-colored line.

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><p>Aneko: Well there you go. Inspired by the episode about Kyoya and Tamaki. You know, the one called, "And so, Kyoya met him." I really like it. You know, Ouran is one of the only animes that I can thoroughly enjoy in both English and Japanese.<p> 


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